Work Text:
They track Bucky down in Berlin, him and Sam, and if he'd had the time and the brain space to stop and think about it, Steve would have appreciated the consistency, the way history repeats itself, how they yet again found each other so far away from where they’d started. That's where the similarities end, though; freeing Bucky isn't considered an act of heroism this time around - more on par with aiding a terrorist. He's ordered to stand down, to let them take Bucky to trial, and allow him to be strung up for the crimes of an organization he’d had no hand in leading, didn't even sign up for voluntarily. Hydra needs a face, is all, and Pierce isn't available to be prosecuted anymore. But there is one truth in Steve's life, it appears, that neither time nor experiments could ever change: he will always go to war over Bucky Barnes. Now the world is self-destructing all around them, literally and figuratively, while trying to convince everyone that Steve had his finger on the trigger. At least they're not alone in this: Sam's help was expected, Barton and Maximoff were a surprise, Lang's a wild card. But he'll make do. He's used to forming a team out of people that weren't an obvious match.
What he isn't yet used to, on the other hand, is the man who looks and sounds like Bucky, but doesn't feel the same. Steve's initial relief at hearing the words your mom's name was Sarah and you used to wear newspaper in your shoes has worn off somewhat, and now he sees the differences rather than the similarities, hears the short and perfunctory sentences, sees the blank look on Bucky’s face. He hasn't seen Bucky change expressions once since they've found him, not even a teasing grin or a smug smirk, nor the exasperated eye roll reserved for when he thinks Steve is being reckless. The canvas is the same, but someone seems to have cut out the original painting and replaced it with a cheap fake.
Seventy years. Seventy years, during which Steve was dead, and Bucky got formed and recoded into something not quite human anymore. That he's remembering anything at all, the doctors said, is likely due to the serum. Not exactly the same that Steve got, a ripoff, but enough to make his body resilient, slow to age and capable of rebuilding itself. His brain, though... they'll have to wait.
Steve has never been patient.
He watches Bucky's hands disassemble a gun, clean it, and put it back together in swift movements that seem automatic, practiced. Steve has no idea how wiping would have worked, but apparently it allowed for muscle memory to settle and remain in place, and it's a small comfort. Bucky has always been stubborn. Something must have survived.
“I can see you watching me,” comes his voice, too loud in the quiet room, unexpected, and it startles Steve, makes him jump. Decades ago, what would have prompted a reaction, banter, a teasing comment, something. But the man Bucky is now stays silent, merely turns his head to silently stare.
Steve sits up straighter, his skin crawling under that gaze, so alien and mechanical, like he's being laser-scanned. “I'm trying to find something I recognize.”
Bucky's eyes narrow, lips thinning. “Your mother didn't want to give you money for movie tickets. I don't know if she simply didn't have any to spare, or if she thought it a senseless waste of time. Both, probably. It's not like mine threw pocket money at me either, what with all these mouths to feed. So we snuck in. Every weekend, sometimes twice. I remember the Marx Brothers movie.” He pauses, cocks his head ever so slightly to the side. “I remember what we were.”
***
When Steve and Bucky were young, movies had only recently gained sound. Movie theaters still deserved the name: marquees and ornaments and an orchestra pit for the swelling symphonies. Even though the height of the silent movie era had passed by the time they were old enough for an afternoon film, the whole affair had still been expensive enough that Brooklyn boys like the two of them had to sneak in after the lights had gone out. It hadn’t always worked; sometimes they were caught, dragged out of the building by their ears. In that case, they’d simply tried again the next day. That part had almost been more important than the movies themselves; the shiny escapism was fun, and they'd started going to the movies because Bucky genuinely wanted to see them; but they'd kept doing it more and more often for the thrill, the clandestine act of sneaking in, not quite criminal, but not really legal either.
They’d tiptoed in via the fire escape, gripping the metal railing for support so their steps could be lighter. The moment they’d slipped inside had been the riskiest part; they’d never known whether the theater's staff was passing by, or turned their way, and would notice the sliver of light from a curtain drawn. Steve had always held his breath through that bit, adrenaline thrumming through his frame, and they'd shared a conspiratorial smile while they’d waited for the right moment. But even if they’d made it through unnoticed, they weren't yet safe: their fellow movie-goers, the paying costumers, might get peeved enough about the boys riding on their coat tails that they'd make a commotion, point them out, get them removed. But this wasn't Fifth Avenue; even out of those who could afford a ticket, most would be sympathetic, would throw them a conspiratorial smile and stay quiet.
The night they'd snuck into the Marx Brothers movie, neither Bucky nor Steve had paid too much attention to the screen. Some friendly guy in a rumpled suit had left halfway through and gave them his leftover popcorn, still more than half full, and they’d been busy flicking it at one another while trying to keep a straight face. The movie had been showing for awhile, and the theater almost empty; the rows in front and behind them unoccupied, and no one to complain about their childishness. The end credits had caught them by surprise, an unwelcome interruption. It meant they had have to leave, slip back into the cold out on the street and head home. It hadn’t taken more than half a block before breathing became difficult, the chilly air locking up Steve's lungs and making him heave.
Bucky had thrown him a concerned glance, then kicked at him, given him a little shove, carefully measured, enough for distraction without the risk to actually knock him off balance. Sucking in a deep, painful breath, Steve had shoved back and grinned, and Bucky’d sped up his steps, turned once he'd gotten ahead, walking backwards. He’d babbled, a constant stream of words, some of them insults, others gossip or a running critique on the movie they'd just only half seen.
They were home before he knew it, Bucky squeezing his shoulder at the top of the stairs at Steve's floor, concern written all over his face while he'd visibly tried to keep out the pity. Steve didn't allow for pity; not from Bucky, not from anyone. Bucky's hand had lingered at the nape of his neck, played with the short hair there, and that small touch had felt more intense than it'd had any right to be. They'd looked at each other, and Steve had quirked any eyebrow, and Bucky had leaned in, pressed a quick, entirely too brief, kiss to his lips, and before the world had had a change to rearrange itself around Steve, Bucky’d turned, running back down the last flight to his own door.
***
They broker a fragile peace. In conference rooms, with lawyers present, not on a battlefield. Nobody lost their lives to this stupid quarrel, but egos have been damaged and bridges have been burned. They'll work together again, Steve's sure. Once the next outside threat arises, they won't have a choice. For now, however, there is no such thing as the Avengers. Every party is slouched back to their corner, licking their wounds in silence.
Most importantly, Bucky's free and under Steve's supervision, although he's willing to admit that the idea to house a brainwashed super-powered assassin whose memories of his past life are sporadic at best in an apartment building in Brooklyn had probably not been his brightest. On the upside, he's reasonably sure he doesn't have to worry that Bucky will randomly switch back to full-on Winter Soldier and attack people out on the streets. Making him stay put, though, is another matter entirely. As soon as Steve's back is turned, he's gone. But he does leave clues, little assurances that he doesn't want to run, does want to be found, just can't stay caged. Today, it's an article in the Times, a review of a book about abandoned places in New York. One picture is circled with black ink, several times. Steve recognizes it immediately. He grabs his jacket and heads out to collect his straying best friend. The fact that he picked a familiar place is almost a comfort; every memory surfacing, every link to their past, tends to put Steve a little more at ease.
For all the time Steve had spent here as a boy, it's the first time he's seeing the high walls, the ornaments and marquees and the paintings, in full light. What's left of them, anyway; recent decades haven't been very kind to their old movie theater. There are large water stains on the ceiling, grown over with mold, covering the deep and rich blue of the original paint job with sickly white and green splotches. The leather of the seats is cracked, and the whole place is covered in a thick layer of dust; each step Steve takes raises up a cloud of dirt, some high enough that even he coughs, his new-and-improved lungs disturbed enough by the invading material to invoke the coughing fits of yore. Oddly, it's almost a comfort.
He finds Bucky on the balcony, his arms propped up on the balustrade, his head buried between them. He doesn't turn at Steve's approach, doesn't even stir; the only sign he's noticed the sudden company is a slight tensing of his back muscles, almost imperceptible, accompanied by a ruffle of layers of clothes. It's summer outside and Steve's in jeans and a t-shirt, plus the ever-present baseball cap, a weak and mostly futile attempt to go unrecognized. But Bucky's wearing a hoodie and a jacket and likely more underneath that he can't see. Steve takes in a breath at the sight, unthinking, and it's swiftly followed by another cough.
“I can't get warm, anymore,” Bucky says, anticipating Steve's questions like it hasn't been seventy years and a repeatedly wiped brain since they lost each other. That, too, is a small comfort, although it's quickly shadowed by a different thought.
Steve remembers the file Natasha gave him: the cryo chamber, the palm Bucky had pressed to the glass in one of the photos. His hands ball into fists by his side.
Bucky turns then, and the smile he wears is all wrong, like someone imitating a picture they once saw, bitter and plasticine, a mask, lacking the emotion that's supposed to go with the expression. His gaze falls to Steve's hands. “Still a fuse 'bout as long as a rat's dick, huh?”
The playful response Steve'd once given him, teasing right back, gets stuck in his throat. If he opens his mouth, he's afraid all he'll do is scream, overrun by the intensity of his own reaction. The waiting's killing him still, and some days he can't decide what's worse; grieving Bucky or being handed back this version of him, a bootleg in original packaging, a little closer and yet a little further away from who he was with every passing day.
Steve unclenches his fists and squares his shoulders. He should be grateful. He should at least try to be patient.
He sits down heavily on the seat next to Bucky, holds his breath through the burst of dirt puffing up from the torn leather, and exhales when he sees Bucky leaning back, eying him, the smile gone. “We'll get you one of those electric blankets, what do you say? Befits your age, too.”
It takes a moment, but then Bucky flips him the bird and the put-upon frown that comes with it is, somehow, much closer to Steve's memories than the attempt at a smile.
***
A little while after that, the nightmares start. The doctors assure Steve they're a good sign, means Bucky's brain is processing, but there is no clinical explanation that could ever make the sound of ear-splitting screams from his best friend's room at night okay. He shoots up in his own bed every time, debating whether to march over there and offer… well, he doesn't know. Something. Anything. The first few nights, he stays where he is, numb and helpless, overwhelmed.
Then he remembers who he is and that he’s faced enemies far worse than the outpouring of terror from a broken brain, swings his legs out of bed, and marches into the living room. It's faintly illuminated from the street lamps outside, a ray of light falling directly onto where Bucky's sitting on the re-purposed sofa, legs underneath himself and the covers thrown aside, staring holes into the dark. He doesn't react at all until Steve flicks on the light. Then, he startles, the lack of situational awareness a testament to how out of sorts he is, and Steve's chastises himself for not announcing his presence more clearly.
“It's just me,” he says, superfluously and too late, and points at the disturbed sheets next to Bucky's body. “Do you mind?”
Bucky shakes his head, and Steve plops down next to him, suddenly exhausted. This is where some foresight would have done him good; laying out what to say, hell, maybe he should have researched calming rituals, asked Sam for advice. None of that will help him now, though, and so he improvises.
“The first new movie I went to see after I got out of the ice was based on a board game,” he tries, and it garners the displeased frown he was hoping for.
“A board game? Seriously?” The disdain is practically dripping out of Bucky's voice. “Which one?”
“Battleship,” says Steve, unable to keep his lips from curling up just a tad – with the familiarity, the fact that he’d gotten the predicted reaction, all of it. “It was rather good. Dumb, but fun.”
Bucky's expression leaves no question as to how very much he doubts that to be true.
“We should watch it sometime,” Steve continues, and then he's got an idea. “Wait a sec.”
Not long after he’d moved in, between the disaster in D.C. and the robot-infestation they’d had to fight next, Natasha had set him up with a shiny new smart TV and a Netflix subscription, both of which he’d heavily protested, but quickly came to enjoy. He now switches the TV on and logs in, and a few clicks later, he's found what he's looking for. Bucky doesn't catch on until the title card flashes across the screen, but then he gapes at Steve as if he’d suggested they have disemboweled kittens for dinner.
“Trust me,” Steve says. He shifts so he can settle against the back of the sofa, one arm thrown over it, and pats the cushion next to him. He means more than just tonight, his taste in movies or the suggested distraction - and he can't be sure whether Bucky realizes or not - but after a few moments he moves, muttering to himself, and sets upon getting comfortable in the space Steve made for him.
***
Germany, it turned out, had theaters too. Of course that hadn’t been entirely unexpected. They weren't all soldiers and savages here, no matter what the propaganda had said, just people caught up in the wrong side of a war, trying to survive. And hey, Steve knows a thing or two about survival. Contrary to the legend that's already been built around him, he's never been very idealistic about his own country either. Few people actually fight for an idea of a nation, especially that late into a war.
They'd run through the small town in northern Germany earlier that week, had the place occupied now after a hard fight. Steve had caught the sign outside the theater when they’d passed. Now they had a night off, the others getting drunk in a bar across the street, and Steve had grabbed Bucky to check the theater out instead. Whatever happened to the owners of this theater, whether they’d been enthusiastic and joined up early, got drafted later, or deported because they’d refused, it had already been abandoned. A little worse for the wear on the outside, same as the whole town, but inside good as new.
It had a much simpler style than their theater back in New York, and Steve hadn’t known whether they were all like that here. The only decoration on the dark brown walls had been heavy, ruffled red curtains that didn't seem to serve any other purpose besides adornment, and golden crystal chandeliers in between. The upholstery on the tip-up seats had the same color as the curtains; it might very well have been the same fabric. If there ever had been an orchestra pit, it'd been covered up, but there was a bar at the far end from the screen, still fully stocked with glasses and booze. He'd been about to suggest they help themselves when Bucky had marched past him, vaulted over the counter and immediately ducked down, reappearing with two different bottles of booze. Steve had dutifully considered them and pointed at one randomly; he didn't much care for what he was drinking anymore, all he’d wanted was the sting of the alcohol going down his throat. He couldn't actually get drunk since the serum, but he could remember, his sense memory conjuring the illusion of a slight buzz, at least.
Bucky had shrugged and snatched two glasses from the display behind him, filled them, then had hopped onto the counter. They’d drank in silence, no patience or ritual or enjoyment, a couple of refills in quick succession. Eventually Bucky had swung around on the surface and slid off the counter, still clutching his glass; he’d had to take a second to steady himself, looking confused, and ignored the hand Steve offered for support.
“Shitfaced already?” Steve had teased, and Bucky’d scowled at him reproachfully.
“You're just jealous the stuff's not doing anything for you anymore,” he’d said and pointed at the seats in the back, below a balcony supported by broad wooden pillars, their design as simple and utilitarian as the rest of the theater. He’d taken off without waiting for Steve to react and had plopped down onto a double seat in the very last row, eyebrows raised, until Steve had followed.
He’d wondered if there was still a movie reel or three up there in the projection room, if they might've gotten the projector running with a little fiddling. Then he’d looked at Bucky, sprawled out over the seat with one leg propped up on the arm rest, swirling the last of his drink in the glass, and found he'd had all the entertainment he needed.
Bucky’d met his eyes with an inquiring frown. “What, I can't get drunk anymore either, just cause you got serum'd up and are missing out? That it?”
Steve’d shaken his head. Bucky's eyes had gone wide, reading him perfectly as always, and that was it, the moment of truth. Now Steve would see if he'd back down, turn away in disgust at this new body, their old days of fooling around nothing but just that. If he'd misread the signs; not like he'd had got a lot of experience with distinguishing ribbing from flirting. Except he kinda did. This was Bucky, whom he’d always known like the back of his hand, whose mood he could always parse without a single word spoken, who he'd watched charm his way into the pants of countless young women. Even so, there’d been a moment where Bucky cocked his head and Steve didn't dare breathe, seconds ticking by like endless centuries.
“I see,” Bucky had said, and grinned, putting him out of his misery. He’d leaned forward and hooked an arm around Steve's neck, drawn him in and pressed their lips together unceremoniously and without elegance. He’d smelled and tasted like liquor, and sense memory pinged again, lending Steve a little bit of the heady rush of drunken kissing, excitement thrumming through his veins like a drug of its own. Their position was uncomfortable, both of them only half-sitting, the armrests poking into Steve's side, and he’d stood, slowly, pulling Bucky up with him until they’d both gotten to their feet.
Steve’d hefted Bucky up like he’d weighed precisely nothing and pushed him against the back wall, enjoying the surprised little gasp Bucky’d given in reaction. He’d broken the kiss and drawn back, mixed emotions flickering across his face: surprise, excitement, something like grief. But whatever the latter had meant, it didn't get the upper hand, and he hadn't protested. Quite the opposite; he’d braced himself against the wall and reached for nearest curtains on either side. Arms wide, fisting the fabric, he’d shot Steve a cocky, challenging smile, a mirror image of the one Steve himself had used to throw at an opponent no matter how ill-matched their squabble may have been, and when Steve hadn’t reacted immediately, Bucky’d rocked his hips against him.
It had been more of a gesture than actual contact, both of them still in full gear, but Steve had never been known to back down from a challenge.
***
As a child, Steve knows, Bucky had loved science fiction novels. Movies not so much – something about how the ridiculous rubber suits and simple sets restricted his imagination. Steve had never much cared for either, had seen no reason to expect the future to better his lot in life, until he’d been proven wrong. There's some irony there, he suspects.
Although, on second thought, he's not even sure much has changed. Wars are still being fought, people are still dying; the only difference being that he possesses the power to fight for what he believes now. It doesn't always shake out so well, as recent evidence shows. Hydra infiltrating SHIELD, Sokovia, the battle against Stark; the world’s gotten more complicated, full of shifting allegiances and friends masquerading as enemies masquerading as friends. And it just doesn't stop. The current truce is little else than a reprieve, but he intends to make good use of it as long as he possibly can.
One thing that hasn't changed, in the future they now share, is that movies are still shown in the dark. It would be a little harder to sneak into the new multiplexes, but they don't have to that now; they can afford all the movie tickets they want. They still come in late, after the ads and the trailers, just in time for the opening credits, so as not to stir up attention. The guy working the box office recognizes them, gives a little gasp when he looks up to count out their change, and Steve lays a finger to his lips and shakes his head to shut him up.
They sit in the back, like when they were kids and had snuck in via the fire escape, candy spread out between them. Bucky picks up a handful of Jujyfruits and plops them into his mouth, then immediately grimaces.
“Don't taste the way they used to, do they,” Steve says, grinning in the dark.
Bucky swallows with obvious effort. “Not much that does.”
With a glance around, making sure no one's recognized them and there are no grainy YouTube videos of the two of them about to pop up in the morning, Steve shoves the offending bag of gum out of the way and leans in.
“Maybe something,” he says, fully aware how cheesy that might sound and expecting the eyeroll it earns him. Bucky does tilt his head up to meet him, though, for a long, deep kiss that means they're missing a good chunk of the first scene.
Then again, for the two of them, actually watching the movies has never really been the point.